


Alba, a Medley

by namio



Series: Song of Ériu [2]
Category: AR∀GO ロンドン市警特殊犯罪捜査官 | Arago
Genre: A collection in between Song of Eriu, Drabble Collection, Fix-It, Gen, No real ships other than Elle and Abe Hunt, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-10 12:16:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4391552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/namio/pseuds/namio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles, set in the middle or after Song of Eriu.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. wings, or fluorescent light at dusk

Ever since Seth came back, they fell into an unspoken alliance.

Oz himself didn’t know when it begun. He knew only that Seth was resigned but ready to fly again, ready to fight. Perhaps that was why he took something akin to pity on him. It was such an easy state to fall into, and it was a familiar enough place for Oz to sympathise, to allow him a moment of respite before he once again returned to the world. But somehow that pity grew into something bigger, unnameable, and so they fell into an uncategorisable relationship of blank looks and spaces, with meaningless exchanges muttered behind mugs and cups, discussions over work and papers.

Amongst the meaningless exchange was this:

“I’ve been wondering something about those wings of yours.”

Seth looked up from his mug of coffee and laptop, the screen’s glow casting soft light on the contours of his face. The sun was setting behind him, blurred by the sheer fabric of the curtains, and Oz felt that strange burst of melancholy bleeding in his chest.

“What is it?” A small click, and the mug was back on the coffee table. “You mean the Orc’s, right?”

Oz shrugged, taking a sip of his tea. The Ceylon Sonata he picked up online smelled perfect for the scene, with the light gold curtains tinting the darkening sky. The ripples on the cup had settled by the time Oz replied. “Yeah. Usually you don’t really see a person with fae wings like that, not really.”

“You shouldn’t.” Curt and short. Not a surprise, but still somehow unsatisfactory.

“And I don’t,” Oz said, because they often fell into meaningless answers such as these.

The light outside faded to ambient plum, and the sheer gold turned to simple gold under the fluorescent light bulb. The glow on Seth’s face disappeared, and the rather ethereal, melancholic air dissipated into normalcy. Oz wasn’t sure how he felt about things, much like he wasn’t sure how he felt about leaving the creeping night behind.

“The Orc originated as part of the fae ranks, I presume,” Seth answered at last, coffee in both hands. The typing and restless eyes ceased, but Oz wasn’t sure when. “As for his detailed origins, I don’t know. You might know better. It seemed to be known as the tempest, and he offered me no other name. I offered it the name Orc and it didn’t say no.”

“He?”

“Hmm?”

“You called it he at first,” Oz clarified, prosthetic hand waving in front of him. “Does it have a form?”

Seth nodded. “Nothing humane, but yes. But that was a personification in my part. It is agender.”

Agender. Interesting. He had never heard of such a creature in the fae realm, though it might be chalked off to simple disinterest. Perhaps he could ask for more information the next time he sent a letter off to the Courts. While they found him amusingly naive, the Queens usually answered his questions. In a condescending way, of course, but such are royalties.

“I still think I need to hand the Orc over to you,” Seth said, solemn. His eyes now stared straight at him-- a rare show of honesty. “My hand still itches.”

“Nah,” Oz replied, shrugging. “Keep it. I’m not one who fits wings.”

Seth frowned, both incredulous and confused. “Since when do cosmetic appearances such as aural wings trump over usefulness and convenience? Here I thought you were a pragmatist, Mr. Soldier.”

They had this conversation twice already, but the answer never changed. Oz shrugged again, this time accompanied with another sip of his cooling tea. The tang of citrus was strong, but with the brightness of the light inside, it felt more lively than biting. Oz waited as Seth continued his furrowed glance, so openly puzzled.

“I don’t see the point. I’m earth bound, and there’s no need for me to have wings. You’re the bird here. Attaching your wings to my back won’t make me soar.”

No amount of means will make Oz fly higher than he’s supposed to. He had never been a dreamer. He was just here to make sure that nothing on the ground would harm the birds when they land for a quick break. This was and always had been his role, and he had no interest in changing things.

Seth turned away, and they stayed like that until the door opened and the bustle returned, a brightness at the last of dusk.


	2. child, and reassurances no one could believe

“Should I tuck you two to bed?”

Elle’s amused voice broke the somber, stoic atmosphere that unknowingly settled in the kitchen. Seth and Oz looked up, blinking. Oz’s hands reached forward, grabbing the papers scattered across the tabletop, but the woman only let out a smile, like someone who caught a child reading after bed time.

Not that Oz ever saw such a thing. The Commander never enforced curfew, save for a few “you will regret not sleeping as much as you could” talks, and Oz’s accidental ‘appreciation’ for 'trash airport novels' as Seth put it was fairly recent. As a kid, there weren’t much to read other than random adventure novels or encyclopaedia-sized bestiaries. He liked the pictures, but it was too boring.

“It’s late already?” Seth asked. “I didn’t realise.”

“It’s late,” Elle confirmed, hands on her hips. “You both need your rest.”

Oz grimaced. It was late, yeah. And they’d been talking about these issues since what, dinner? And they probably ought to stop for the day. But these were important things they need to settle on quickly, since they concerned pretty much the entire human race. Balor was still out there, and while Arago finally agreed, there were still other things to sort out. This wasn’t the sort of thing one could ignore until they crossed the bridge.

“We should probably retire soon,” Seth agreed, “but not now.”

“Sorry to keep you up, though,” Oz added.

Elle’s eyes softened as her smile faded into something more solemn, kind. It still had that fond note, though, that sort of proud look. A flash of pain flitted through Seth’s face, almost too fast to see, but though he schooled his expression quickly, his aura flickered in conflict. Ah. He read about this.

“It’s almost one o’clock,” Elle said instead. The brighter light of the hallways played behind her, turning her light blond hair into pale fire. “Aren’t some things better after a good night’s sleep?”

Well. Some things weren’t, and the way Seth looked off to the side told Oz that they were thinking the same thing. Things didn’t get better after Seth awakened from the Lia Fail dream. Things weren’t better after Oz woke up from the drug-induced sleep he fell into after the battle. These weren’t things they could talk about, and in a way Oz wouldn’t want to talk about it to any of the Hunts. They had a painful kind of optimism, one that hurt too much to heal.

If these unhelpful sleep was rest, they had enough rest to last them a lifetime. 

Almost silently, Elle walked up to them. Her hand reaches up to Seth’s hair and brushed some strands up as she patted his head, locks bouncing softly. His eyes fluttered close, and his aura turned into a pained relief. Oz looked at the papers, unsure if he should witness it. Some things were better left unacknowledged.

Then the hand reached to pat his head and then pap his cheek. Oz looked up to see Elle’s smile.

“Sleep. It’ll be better in the morning.”


	3. strikhedonia

“We probably shouldn’t,” Ewan said in the guise of the voice of logic, but a snicker escaped his lips and ruined his credibility.

It had only been months since he returned from the Cauldron, but he had been recovering. His speech and movements improved slowly, after nearly a year of disuse, but despite everything, it had only taken several weeks before he was laughing again. He still had terrifying nightmares and couldn’t handle having someone stand behind him and had problems getting into a car, but darn it if Arago wasn’t going to take what he’s got. Ewan snickered as he held up the hose, wordlessly saying he was ready.

The fights were still going on the side of the Albion house, and they had the advantage. Nobody saw them creep to the backyard, and everyone else only had water guns Oz had a pile of. Even Seth, who originally only raised an eyebrow at the proffered gun, joined in after a stray shot hit his face straight on. This was  _war_.

“To hell with it,” Arago shouted in glee, and they leapt into the water fight with the hose, guffawing at every screams of surprise.


	4. food

“Rio, honey, there’s another package for you.” Elle’s voice rang clear in the halls, but it grew louder along with her footsteps. Lazy heads barely tilted upwards in curiosity as Rio perked up, almost jumping to her feet as Elle stepped into the room. “From your… parents, yep. Well, I’m glad good ol’ Lewis is still sending you packages. And Hoshiko, too! Good. Here you go.”

The Albion house had been nothing short of… loud ever since Elle Hunt came back to life. There was just something about her presence that set everything alight– she was bubbly but attentive, excitable but understanding, a combination rare but incredible– and it turned the usually solemn group into something a lot more lively.

“Now I know where Ewan got it,” Joe muttered to him once. Oz only raised his eyebrows, and well, Arago clearly wasn’t the one who inherited her personality.

“Kaasan did say she was sending some things,” Rio said, taking the box from her. It was quite big, Oz noted lazily. Quite big and most likely yet another pack of food and ingredients. Or maybe clothes. He recalled Rio (somewhat embarrassedly) walking around in… what was it again? Yukata, though it wasn’t often. Elle did take her time gushing about it, though, in that special way of hers, and it coaxed Rio to wear it more often. And now, it seemed, she was going to do the same with whatever Japanese things just arrived.

The sound of ripped tape interrupted the sounds from the telly, prompting disgruntled noises from Arago, but Abe raised the volume a notch and the grumbling dragon was appeased. Seth, however, made a displeased grunt beside Oz, one swallowed by the badly scripted movie from the TV.

“Oh!” Rio’s voice was soft, almost unheard with the loud sound effects from the horror movie Arago switched to. Seth’s eyebrow twitched. “Looks like this is for you, Elle-san. It’s Botan rice candies.”

“The candies your mother once gave to me?” It was amazing how much controlled excitement could be packed into a voice, and Elle Hunt’s was the pinnacle of such art.

“Mhm. She sent, one, two… five boxes. And these Pucca chocolates are definitely for Arago. And oh.”

A crinkling of plastic and suddenly a weight slid down Oz’s shoulder and onto Seth’s lap, and by proxy, book. Seth’s displeased noise was somewhat a cross between a dying cat and an upset deer, but Oz fished the poor product before it could be subject to a glare.

“…KitKat Cheesecake?”

Rio’s defense was quick and sheepish. “It’s good, I promise! That one is for Seth, I think. Kaasan’s writing is a bit messy and I think she wrote his name in Kana.”

Whatever. Turning the package around, Oz could see that there was a big writing in black marker, and Rio seemed to recognise it. “Yep. That’s for Seth.”

Another thing– this time a sky blue carton box– slid down his shoulder. “That one is for you, Oz. I– _Kaasan_. Just. Just ignore the writing.”

Oz didn’t bother to point out that the writing was in messy Japanese. He couldn’t read it even if he chose to not ignore it. And he chose to let it slide as Rio dug into the box and muttered under her breaths, sorting it out. And soon enough, Arago’s face was pelted with a carton box, leaving him to splutter in anger as Rio handed the rest their snacks. Abe got something with green tea, Oz guessed, while Joe got something that seemed like mochi. (Daifuku, she said, but Oz couldn’t even differentiate between one squishy round blob from another.) She then plopped down on the sofa with three bags: one of crisps, seaweed flavoured, one of some small little candies, and another she handed to Coco. Pocky, one with some… crunch, it seemed.

“This tastes like chocolate,” Arago remarked. Rio threw one of her candies– they looked more like something Oz would throw for people to step on, to be honest– at him.

Well, two things made the Albion house livelier: Elle Hunt and Rio’s packages. She never failed to perk up whenever they arrived, especially when it came to food, and the mood carried to the others. Oz supposed that was a good thing. Food was the only thing she could have that felt like Japan, she once confessed to him, and _home_  made her happy.

“…I’m not sure they understand what cheesecakes taste like,” Seth muttered beside him.

“Here,” Oz said, holding out his open bag of Hello Panda. “This is supposed to taste like my hugs.”

(What Rio didn’t know was that her mother, Hoshiko, wrote the same phrase in English, in small neat handwriting near the bottom: _He sounds like a really nice person! Like a big brother figure. I reckon he has big, warm hugs~_ )

On the other couches Elle was busy savouring her candies while Abe blinked at his snack, face scrunched in concentration. Coco smooched off some of Rio’s crisps– they seemed to be best pals now– and Joe had gone off to make himself some tea and get away from the half-war forming. Seth mostly looked like a frowning kitten, half disgusted half uncertain.

He _did_ end up taking one of the cookies, but it ended up landing on Arago’s face when the others roped him into the war. Oz sighed. Maybe he should start giving out hugs to make people realise how much better it was than a cookie to the face.


	5. Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abe and Ewan moment.

“Good morning, Ewan.”

Ewan blinked twice as he clutched his hot mug of coffee tighter.

It was five in the morning and he stumbled out of bed after his alarm buzzed three times. His feet immediately stumbled towards the kitchen, bypassing any other routines he had, to get himself a cup of coffee. The hallways were dark and the living room was dead, devoid of even Seth, and the last thing Ewan expected was someone in the kitchen.

Maybe he was remembering things wrong, but he was pretty sure his dad didn’t usually wake up at 4:53.

“Good morning Dad,” he answered before chugging his coffee. The hot, bitter liquid was nice and familiar and he let out a large, satisfied sigh. Nothing quite felt like comfort like a nice hot cup of coffee. His dad watched with amused smile as he resumed chopping things, expert and quick though the only lights on were the bits from the porch that streamed in. Ewan watched his movements as he drank more, waiting for pieces of his soul to come back to his body.

“That’s a lot of coffee for five o’clock in the morning,” his dad said as he set aside the green things he chopped and grabbed another green thing to chop, this time leafy. Ewan blinked.

“Ah,” he said. “I got unused to waking up so early. It used to be much easier to be awake at this hour.”

Back then, he didn’t even sleep sometimes. Work always seemed to pile up, and Ewan had high expectations of himself. It could be hard to relent to sleep when he had higher ups saying that they expected big things coming from him. It was even harder when he remembered that a child or a parent really needed answers—answers only he could provide.

“If you want to make waking up this early a habit, you should sleep earlier.” Dad’s voice was calm as always, and Ewan could feel himself zone out as he listened to it. “If you force yourself, especially with your condition right now, you’d burn out before the end of day three.”

All Ewan could do was chug his coffee some more, because his eyes were still burning. Maybe what he needed wasn’t coffee, but washing his face. Ewan frankly couldn’t tell, after not being able to really wake up or sleep for so long. The things he used to call habits were memories he had a hard time remembering. He couldn’t tell whether it was something psychological or if he truly received a certain kind of brain damage.

“Sit down. I’m making breakfast.”

Ewan nodded and shuffled towards the kitchen stools, letting the wood drag across the old floors as he slouched over the table. His mug made a small noise as he placed it down, but it was buried underneath the rhythmic _chop chop chop_ of his dad’s knife. Ewan let his head fall on his arms, crossed on the table, and tilted it as he stared at his dad’s back, eyes closing.

He couldn’t remember why he set on his alarm, but all thoughts of the sort disappeared as he fell asleep to the comforting sounds of things cooking. His dad cooked amazing things. His mum baked delicious desserts. Ewan grew up with these sounds, and it felt like his childhood again.

He fell asleep sitting, a small smile playing on his face.


End file.
